


The Same As Having Wings

by PumpkinWrites



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Body Horror, Cremation References, Flashbacks, Gen, Gore References, Incineration References, Intrusive Thoughts, Murder, Panic, Repression, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 15:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15911289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinWrites/pseuds/PumpkinWrites
Summary: The rush of heat whipping past her face, close enough to tilt her head from the force of its movement, startles her more than she can say. Wide eyes follow the projectile as it makes contact with a stack of supply crates, and they go blank when she sees it incinerate the stack in mere fractions of a second. She can’t breathe. Could she ever breathe? She can't remember. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. She doesn't know what's wrong but something is very, very wrong and she's... afraid. She's afraid and she feels sick and she can't breathe she can't breathe she can't--





	The Same As Having Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a quick warning: Emily's experiences in this situation closely mirror how my brain and body react to psychological triggers. The intent of this piece is to be disorienting. It is a mix of intrusive thoughts and narration of her experience. If this, or anything listed in the tags, is not safe for you, then please, by all means, click away. Don't repress traumatic experiences, kids!
> 
> Story takes places when the Feds and Rebels unite at the Rebel base in season 12, before they relocate to Armonia in season 13.

"Captain Tucker is recovering _quite_  marvelously from his injuries! I have to say, I'm actually a little impressed! A standard-issue combat knife doesn't cut through body armor quite so easily, so I really must commend either the manufacturer of the knife, or the mercenary's ability to strike with enough power to force a blade through nanofiber! I'd almost like to get my hands on that knife and see what's reinforcing the blade!"

"Uh, yeah. Great. If we get ahold of it, you'll be the first to know."

"Yeah. Right. Sure. Thanks for the update, doc."

"Of course! Oh, and by the way, sweetie, has anyone told you that your medical... um... facility is severely undersupplied? And honestly, it's more than a little unsuited for use as a medical station? There's a very fascinating, yet _very_  obstructive stalagmite cluster two feet from your operating room! It's sort of shaped like a pancreas, though, so I suppose it's technically appropriate, and the fungus growing on it would be a very interesting specimen to add to my collection, but it's very much in the way..."

"Okay, first off? Don't ever call me sweetie. And second? That's probably kind of because you people cut off our supplies and forced us underground. The lake's radioactive too, you wanna make fun of that?"

"Oh, goodness, no! If I'm being honest, I'd actually like to get a sample of that algae and study it as well! I'm _very_  fascinated with mutated and irradiated flora! Oh, and don't worry, now that we've called a truce, I'll be more than happy to share our supplies, and set you up in a more suitable work space! I'd offer staff as well, but unfortunately--"

The rush of heat whipping past her face, close enough to tilt her head from the force of its movement, startles her more than she can say. So badly that she drops her helmet, letting it and her gloves hit the ground at her feet. Whatever she was about to say is cut off abruptly, as if she's been muted midsentence. Wide eyes follow the projectile as it makes contact with a stack of empty supply crates, and they go blank and glassy when she sees it incinerate the stack in mere fractions of a second.

Before she can comprehend what she's seen, the doctor finds that she can't move. She can’t breathe. Could she ever breathe? She can't remember. She's very cold. Why is she so cold? It's so warm but she's shivering and her fingers feel numb and everything feels like ice. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. She doesn't know what's wrong but something is very, very wrong and she's... afraid. She's afraid and she feels sick and she can't breathe she can't breathe she can't--

The world swims in and out of focus in front of her, and while her vision doesn't tunnel, or gray out, or go black, everything shifts and blurs. Pitches upward. Everything's suddenly higher above her than it was before. Is she on the ground now? She can't tell anymore. She may have collapsed.

A quick check around her tells her yes, she has collapsed. She's on the ground. Her legs have given out. That's concerning. It should be even more concerning that it took her more that it's taken her more than a half second to process this fact, but in all perfect honesty she just cannot be bothered to care about that. She's more focused on the fact that she can't seem to get any air into her lungs, and the air she's managing to pull in feels like knives in her throat.

_"--tor Grey?"_

_"--esus Christ what's wrong with her--"_

_"--mebody get help!"_

The voices come from somewhere far away, but she can't see where. She knows there are people nearby, but she can't force herself to reach out to them, to communicate. She doesn't think she could articulate the problem if she tried. Emily’s hands curl into claws over her face, short nails digging hard into her forehead and raising scratches that sting sharply as she drags them downward. The sting fades as suddenly as it comes, and she forgets all about the scratches as they bloom into pink, angry hash marks against her skin. Her nails press against the edge of her brow bones in the creases above her closed eyes as she hides her face from view. She isn't sure why she thinks that will help: sensory deprivation will only cause more panic...

No, you can't panic. Think happy thoughts.

Yes.

Right.

Happy thoughts.

Don’t think about fire. Don’t think about smoke. Don't think about the temperature required to completely incinerate a human body, armor, nanofiber underarmor, bones and all. Don't think about how hot it has to burn to do it in less than a second. Don't think about the silence. The heavy, suffocating, deafening silence. Think about the smell of burnt flesh and hot metal. Burning hair. Think about ashes. Think about the ash fluttering and twisting in the air. Think about breathing in that ash and knowing that it was once a friend. A comrade.

A human being.

Happy thoughts.

Think about looming figures in dark armor stalking around the compound. Think about blood on the snow. Think about screaming. Think about the sounds of gunfire and the yells for help. Think about patients slaughtered in their beds. Think about charging down an armed assailant with nothing but several scalpels in order to get out of the medical building. Think about the butt of a rifle catching you in the side of the head in an attempt to knock you out. It hits you hard enough to make your ears ring, but not enough to stun you, and you recover and go for a weak point in the attacker's armor with your last scalpel.

Happy thoughts.

She can still see them. She can still _hear them_. Her mind is assaulted by a veritable barrage of sounds, echoes ringing in her ears. Phantom sensations of looming, intimidating presences all around her.

She can hear the chaos and commotion outside the walls of her office. The sounds of gunfire and yelling. She can hear bits and pieces of what's going on over the radio. Soldiers yelling orders and relaying information, only to be cut off. Only for their radios to go dead. Or worse, for them to simply go unresponsive, and for their radios to stay on, picking up and amplifying the massacre around the dead soldier. A symphony of slaughter, played live over the local channel to a captive, yet dwindling audience.

She can hear her patients calling for help, scrambling to get out of their beds. Rushing to defend themselves or to run and help their comrades, despite being out of armor, only to be incinerated for their troubles. She can hear the others, the ones too injured to risk running, begging, pleading with their assailants. Crying for their lives. And she can hear the mercenaries ignoring them. It physically hurts her that she can't go to them, can't defend them, but the only chance she has of getting out alive is to barricade herself in her office and let her staff protect the patients. But the nurses are cut down as swiftly and easily as the patients. None of them can fire a weapon as accurately as the hired guns mowing them down.

It's an ironic juxtaposition of circumstances, really. So much harm, so much death, in a place meant to heal. In a place full of people who would be just as obligated to treat their killers as their comrades, were they to come across them on the battlefield.

She can hear those heavy, menacing footsteps outside her office as she crouches and braces with her side against the wall. She can practically hear the slow, heavy breathing of the mercenary who's looking through the reinforced glass window inches above her head. The mercenary who, by some miracle that would almost assuredly convince any other person of the existence of some almighty powers that be, doesn’t see her.

Happy thoughts.

Is that screaming? Who's screaming?

They are.

Happy thoughts happy thoughts happy thoughts--

There's hands on her now, and she can't feel anything but the pressure of them through her armor and the nanofiber of her exosuit but even that makes her skin crawl. She can't stand the touching, she wants them to get off of her. Please stop touching her. She doesn't like to be touched unless its her idea. Please get away, she feels so crowded, it's getting even harder to breathe...

Is she the one making that horrible gasping sound?

Vomit rises in her throat and the screaming lessens by only one voice as her entire body lurches. She shoves at whoever -- _whatever_  -- is touching her, hands still clawed, though those claws flatten as she covers her mouth and one of her eyes with them. Something warm and unpleasant splatters against the palm of the hand against her half-open mouth, something that she can't identify right away. It can't be vomit, there's not enough substance to it. It just feels like thick drool.

The voices are yelling again, the screaming unbearably loud in her ears, and she can feel herself screaming too but can't tell if any sound is coming out of her. She wants to cover her ears but she can't move her arms.

_"--ily? Emily, can you hear me?"_

Her vision clears just enough to register a face in front of her own, but she can't seem to identify them. They're not wearing all of their armor, she doesn't know who they are. White pauldrons... they're Federal Army? Is that right? What color is their detailing, she can't see it.

There's murmuring, the face in front of her is speaking to someone she can't see through the hand over her eye, and she can't make out their response through the echoing of the screams and the blood rushing in her ears.

"Emily, I'm going to move your hands now. You are not being attacked or restrained. You are perfectly safe." The hands are back, but they're on her hands and wrists, and she feels skin against her own. She still doesn't like it but it doesn't make her want to peel her skin off. They pull her hands down and rest them in her lap, and then they let go of her. "There. Can you tell me where you are, Emily?"

They want her to talk to them. Can she do that? Does she still have a voice anymore? She... she isn't sure. Where is she, again? She feels cold. This isn't Armonia she knows that, but... there's a Federal soldier here. Cold temperature, Federal Army personnel...

"... Fe... Federal A-Army... Out... Outpost Thirty-Seven..."

Of course. It's so obvious, where else could she be? Why would she be anywhere else to begin with? And this is a Federal soldier speaking to her, clearly she isn't captured, no need to rattle off her information and nothing else. She... isn't even sure what her rank is anymore. She's an officer, she knows, she's technically the Federal Army's Chief Medical Officer. She's needed at her compound, there's no reason for her to leave. Surely that must be right... that's where...

... oh no...

They're all dead out there. All of them. The soldiers. The technicians, the specialists, the nurses, the patients... They're dead and they're piles of ash and smoke in the air and getting into the ventilation and oh _no_  they're breathing them in, the ventilation systems on the armor can't possibly be filtering out all the ash for the armored soldiers but she and the soldier in front of her aren't wearing their helmets they have no barrier against the ash oh no _oh no they're in their lungs_!

Lungs are like sponges, with millions of tiny air sacs for transferring oxygen. This is a healthy lung. This is the amount of human remains you're breathing in right now. It's enough to make you sick. Very sick.

The voice speaks again but she doesn't understand it. She feels herself gasp, and she holds her breath to prevent breathing in more human remains. Just the thought of what she's already inhaled makes her feel sick again, disgusted at the image of human ash filtering into her lungs, building up against the muscle and sticking there like so much tar, unable to be filtered out fast enough.

Your lungs are rotting!!!

... it can't be hard to open up her own chest and remove her lungs right? She can replace them with a respirator or something, can't she? She's alright with being confined to an office on a respirator, or maybe just confined to a hospital, at least, she could rig up a system that's hooked into her armor, so she can still operate. Local anesthesia exists, it's possible to operate on a patient who is alert, she's a _genius_  for goodness' sake, she can figure it out...

"--ri... Emily? Oh dear..."

It takes a heat of one thousand four hundred to one thousand eight hundred degrees fahrenheit (seven hundred sixty to nine hundred eighty-two degrees celsius) to traditionally cremate the average human body. The heat dries out the body, burns away fat, skin and hair, vaporizes soft tissues, chars the muscles. This does not destroy bone, this merely calcifies the bones and allows them to crumble.

In a traditional cremation, the dried bone fragments and skeletal remains of a body are ground down into a sand-like consistency after they are allowed to cool following exposure to fire. It takes an average of two to three hours to complete the process, producing three to seven pounds of remains. But that's a human body that's been prepared for cremation.

She doesn't know how hot it would have to be to turn a fully-armored soldier to nothing.

Someone else speaks from behind her, and it occurs to her that she's quite vulnerable to attack like this. Someone could very easily come up behind her and catch her in or around the throat, or through the nanofiber covering the lower part of her spine. But she can't bring herself to move. She can't get up and run for cover, she would be slowed down by the...

... wait...

... where is the snow?

There... is no snow.

This isn't Outpost Thirty-Seven. It can't be. There's no snow on the ground. But it certainly isn't Armonia. And Outpost Twenty-Two was abandoned weeks ago. Then, where is she? She's very confused. Where else could she be if not her compound?

"Emily, please breathe. It's alright... y-you aren't at your outpost. Whatever you are afraid of breathing in isn't here..." The voice is a little clearer but she still can't place it in her mind. She knows it, she knows she knows it but why can't she identify them? They know her given name: not many of the soldiers do. "This is the base of operations of the New Republic. You were not captured, both armies have agreed to a truce. You are quite safe here. Perfectly safe."

That doesn't... sound right. Why would they do that? The rebels are the opposition, why would... no, wait... no, that's... that's wrong... where had they said she was? She's having trouble remembering. She can't give them the answer they want, so she says nothing, But she does finally breathe again, though she does cover her mouth.

Just in case.

When she blinks, the world flickers, and she continues to stare at the face of the soldier crouched in front of her as the blurriness in her vision clears. Why doesn't she recognize this soldier? Well, no, she _recognizes_  them, she just can't _identify_  them. Somehow that's worse, really. They know her _name_  why doesn't she know theirs?

"Emily? Can you tell me where you are now?"

Another soldier steps partially into view, and her blood freezes in her veins when her eyes find dark armor. She isn't sure if the bloodstains she sees on it are real or not but it doesn't matter, that armor means _danger_  and they need to get _away_  from it before they're _seen_. They have to _run_  but she can't _move_...

Screaming, however, doesn't seem like a great alternative either, in all honesty. But that's what she settles on. It's all she can do.

"Emily! Emily, it's alright, that's just Agent Washington. You know him. He's a friend. He--I... Agent Washington, if you would... just a moment? Only a moment, please." There's a sound of disagreement, but the armor disappears, and the person in front of her catches her attention again. "There. There, now, he's gone, Emily. You're perfectly safe."

Is she? Is she really? She doesn't know anymore. Is this soldier a prisoner? Is she a prisoner? Are the pirates lurking just out of view, waiting to strike? If she really is a prisoner, she can quite easily dispatch herself. She sees rocks and a few sheer drops. A fall isn't particularly the way she'd like to go, but it's preferable to starvation. She can't particularly see them caring much about feeding their prisoners. And they're probably not good enough at torture to make it any fun. And frankly, she'd rather do it herself than give them the satisfaction. Maybe she could even take a few with her.

But this is a Federal soldier. And they know her name. This is an ally. And they keep saying that she's safe. Perfectly safe. They say it the exact same way each time. Either they're trying to lull her into a false sense of security, or they're trying to make sure that she understands.

At this point, it's a risk she's willing to take.

She doesn't know why she feels the need to repeat the statement, but doing so actually seems to help. It seems to make it more real. She doesn't feel like she's lying, so she finds the statement easier to believe.

"... I... I-I'm perfectly safe."

The person in front of her nods, and smiles at her. "That's right. Emily, I need to know that you understand where you are."

... alright. Where... where had they said she was? ... oh, yes. That... that still doesn't seem right. At all. But...

"... the ba... base of operations... of the... New Republic. I-I... was... was not captured..."

"That's right, Emily. Very good."

She shakes her head as the fear begins to fade. Right, she got away from the outpost. She... had been with the Reds and Blues! That was right! She had gotten away, that... that was right. There had... they had been to an old research facility in the forest. And then an altercation, at the Reds and Blues' crash site. And now, she's here. The base of operations of the New Republic, that's right. And in front of her is...

Oh.

 _Oh_.

**_Oh!_ **

"G-General Doyle!"

Goodness, is that her voice? It's such a squeak. Has the general been here this whole time? Had he been the one trying to pull her back to reality? That was... he has better things to do...

"S-Sir, I... I-I am _so_  sorry..."

"Don't apologize, Emily. It's quite understandable after what you've been through. Come on now, up you get."

She nods, allows him to help her to her feet, accepts her helmet and gloves from another soldier -- Agent Carolina, she identifies. She quietly thanks her, though she doesn't replace her armor on her body just yet. She just tucks her helmet under her arm. She registers the sound of the general's voice again, and turns her head to look at him.

"--Agent Washington was letting us know that the soldier who was caught playing with a captured incineration cannon has been severely reprimanded," the general is explaining. "We think that that caused you to panic. But... we can discuss that once you've calmed down. The mess hall is just through here, let's... let's get you inside, get you some water."

He leads her into the mess hall, sits her down at a shabby table far from the door, in a corner so that it's nearly impossible for someone to get behind her, and then he walks out of view, leaving her alone with her thoughts again.

This isn't Outpost Thirty-Seven, this is the base of the New Republic. The armies of Chorus have called a truce. She can't recall why right now, but that sounds more correct than it did the first time it was said to her. She can't remember anymore why she'd panicked, perhaps that's for the best. But she's still afraid. That's not good.

Happy thoughts.

The brain is often thought to be closest in texture to wet clay or even sponge, but in reality, the brain is soft, closer to melting butter. It's much squishier than most people think.

Not now, that's a very fun and interesting fact, but it doesn't help her right now. Happier than that.

The general returns with what she quickly identifies as a bottle of water, and she accepts it carefully so as not to drop it. She takes several long drinks from the bottle, focusing on the sensation of water flowing down her throat. After a moment, it occurs to her to breathe in as she swallows, allow the water into her lungs and let it wash away the buildup of human remains and ash and smoke inside of them, and she actually does so, but all she sees when she coughs the fluid back up is clear water.

Either it didn't work, or there was never anything in there to disgorge.

"Careful, Emily, wouldn't do to have you choke after all you've been through." The general reaches out and settles a hand on her armored forearm, and he peers at her face. "How are you feeling? Are you still anxious?"

Yes. She's very anxious, and she's confused, and she can't really remember why she was panicking anymore. But she can't let herself stay this way. Too many people need her. And the feeling of fear, of even sadness, feels acidic and horrible in her chest... it makes her want to scream, and cry, and...

But she can't. She can't do that.

She would like very much to go back to her happy place now. She would like to stop feeling this way. She would like her head to be clear, she'd like to be able to focus and feel happy and productive and be able to help people again. That's why she does this. That's all she's ever wanted to do. It's why she became a doctor. Well, that and a fascination with the human body and how it works, but let's not split hairs here...

Rght, where was she? Oh yes. Happy thoughts.

Say, that's it! You think of a wonderful thought! Any happy little thought? Think of the happiest things. It's the same as having wings. When there's a smile in your heart, there's no better time to start. Think of all the joy you'll find when you leave the world behind and bid your cares goodbye--

No, no, happy thoughts. Not ancient song lyrics.

"Emily?"

Happy thoughts. Think about what makes you the happiest.

Think about blood rushing through tubes, about the satisfying feeling of locating a vein on the first try. Think about the sharp edges of scalpels and the points of needles catching the light overhead. Think about the gleam of sterile surgical equipment in a tray. Think about the steady sound of heartbeat monitors and the hum of harsh white lights. The smell of disinfectant and hand sanitizer. The snap of a vinyl glove against her wrist and the squish and weight of organs in her hands. The pristineness of a well-organized workspace.

"Do you feel alright?"

Think of how, soon, you'll be back in a real workspace! You'll able to experiment again! You'll be able to do your research and tinker with your projects again! You've had plenty of ideas for new weaponry features after working on Freckles, you'll be more than able to implement them into other weapons! Maybe you'll finally perfect the aimbot function, maybe even get it to run in combination with a hardlight shield generator!

And most importantly, you'll be back to working in a proper medical facility! You'll be able to get back to treating patients! Back to plucking out bullets and sewing up gashes! You'll be back to amputating limbs and performing autopsies in no time! You'll be right back where you belong!

It'll be _wonderful_!

Ah, and now she's back. Back in her happy place. She feels her face settle back into its usual bright, wide smile. Feels the acid burn of fear and sadness fade away, and feels the bile it's raised slide back down her throat and out of mind. Goodness, that feels _so_  much better! What had she been upset about, again? She can't recall now.

"Right as _rain_ , General Doyle!"

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Emily does sing "You Can Fly!" from Peter Pan in her head. No, I'm not sorry about that.


End file.
